I am a Maine farmhouse. A hunkering cape.
I am the farmhouse, haunted and haunting.
I am the armchair in the wood-stove room of the farmhouse, in whose crook
I once discovered the most complete of all moments,
tilting my head against the wing-backs.
I am the wall of snow, door-shaped in the doorframe.
I am the air that pocked the drift, then kept on blowing.
I am the grave of the livestock veterinarian who once lived in the farmhouse.
I am he, calling
his patients from the paddock.
I am the stonewall that partitioned the paddock.
I'm a sick sheep.
A horse with a gash in its mouth.
- Cassie Pruyn (from Border Crossing)